Bullet Journal: Confessions of a Modestly Prolific Hitman for Hire, Entry 2,317

Entry 2,317

Dearest Abigail,

You and today’s client would have gotten on like a house on fire, I am sure. This is appropriate, because a certain amount of conflagration did erupt, briefly, during the hard sell. You needn’t worry yourself about the authorities getting involved. I was able to douse the flames quickly enough and dissipate the brunt of the smoke through a few clever modifications to a dehumidifier such that the local fire brigade is none the wiser. 

The only real casualty was my greatcoat. As you know, I am fastidious about the judicious application of plastic coveralls whenever practicable, and while the manufacturer claims they are rated to temperatures up to one hundred and seventy five degrees centigrade, I found, to my horror, that this is simply not the case. Needless to say, I shall be giving the manufacturer a sound and thorough drubbing in the form of a scathing customer review and shall endeavour to disseminate evidence of their chicanery as far and as widely as my meager influence permits.

I am hopeful that the greatcoat may yet be saved. I noticed the plastic denaturing almost immediately and had the foul garment off before more than a narrow strip had adhered to the left sleeve. I was able to prise loose the plastic with no small amount of patience and the number four tweezers that I keep in my valise, but it is obvious that the dratted thing coated some of the fibers with soot from the fire. 

I am no slouch in the laundering department, but I fear that such a stain is beyond my mortal means to repair. I’ve left the greatcoat in Wong’s inestimably skilled care. As you know, Wong is a wizard when it comes to wool, to say nothing of his powers over the usually intractable Mekong Silk. I’ve only ever seen him stymied one time, and that was when I got a little bit of spinal fluid on my very favorite lavender and periwinkle cravat - nasty business all round, that had been. 

I have every confidence in his success, but I do bitterly wish it had not been necessary to engage his services. There exists something of a gentlemanly game between him and me, in that I (almost) never give him anything like a real challenge, neat as I generally am. I cherish his exasperated exclamations, “Your clothes are too clean. Bring back when dirty, yes?”

Not so today. I can’t tell you what a mortal blow it was to see the aggrieved look of utter disappointment that I had contrived such an unsightly blemish on one of my garments. I tell you truly that the lad was completely inconsolable, though no more so than I! I have no choice but to launder all of my clothes exclusively with Wong for the next fortnight or three before I can even begin to hope to get back into his good graces .

If I’ve done so once I’ve done so a thousand times, I humbly beg your pardon for my meandering off of the main thread and into sartorial melancholy once again. I know you always preferred the tense and thrilling blow by blow, the cut and thrust, all those bangs and booms associated with my line of work, but I’m afraid that I haven’t your flair for the dramatic, and try as I might, I can’t shift myself to dwell with any degree of fascination on any of the more, shall we say, cinematic aspects of my day to day as a modestly prolific hitman for hire, but for your sake I shall make every effort to “spice things up”, as they say. 

Yours in Eternal Affection,

Archibald Marius Thistlewaite IV